Wayward Light
by Oni-Gil
Summary: Drift doesn't know who he is without Deadlock; Wing isn't half the knight he should be. Fortunately, there are plenty of planets to visit, battles to fight, and lives to save while they figure it out. Two bots setting off into the universe to find their path, together. (ie, Wing Lives AU. Cross-posted from Ao3.)
1. I Hate Long Goodbyes

(Crossposted from Ao3)

**A/N**: We're gonna have an ADVENTURE! I've been contemplating this one for a while. I don't know how long it will run or how long it will take to write, but this is one I want to see through.

* * *

**1. I Hate Long Goodbyes**

* * *

_ "__Wing!" Drift's knees crashed into the dust as he dropped beside Wing. The jet's gold optics were dim, flickering, but online. Through the breach in his chest, his white Spark flickered fitfully, like a tiny flame in a strong wind. Drift cupped a protective hand over it, as though to keep it from blowing out. "Wing. I'm sorry… I should have been faster…"_

_ "__Drift." His voice was faint, but still the most beautiful thing Drift had ever heard, because it meant that Wing—righteous, stubborn, infuriating, beautiful Wing—was alive. "Drift."_

_It seemed to be all he could say. Drift grasped his hand, squeezing out a silent message. _I'm here. I'm right here. You're safe.

_The others knelt, making as though to lift Wing, but Drift said, "No. I'll do it."_

_He gathered Wing into his arms._

_ "__You carried me to this city," he said, so quietly that only Wing could hear. Wing's mouth twitched into a little smile. "Now I'll carry you."_

* * *

After the battle, there were fallen civilians to mourn—none of the Circle had been killed—slavers' corpses to burn, and wounded to repair. Medics and translators worked their way through the creatures locked in the slavers' ship, healing their injuries and learning their origins.

Wing lay in medical stasis, his condition critical. A breached Spark chamber was the most grievous injury any Cybertronian could suffer. It was a miracle that his Spark had survived, and if Drift hadn't come roaring to his rescue in a blind rage, his attacker would have easily finished him off.

Given Drift's protective fury when Wing was injured, Dai Atlas found it strange that Drift hadn't returned since carrying Wing to the medbay. He kept himself busy elsewhere: he had brought Lockdown's small ship back to the City for refits to his specifications. Much like Drift's own frame, the ship's Decepticon origins were rebuilt piece by piece with Crystal City's tech.

He didn't say anything, but everyone knew. Drift had something in mind for this ship.

When Drift put in a cautious request for a large quantity of energon rations, Dai Atlas decided that if nobody else was going to ask, he should. If only for Wing's sake. At least Drift wasn't difficult to find, spending so much time on the ship.

"Are you that eager to be gone?" he asked the white mech's back. Drift was familiarizing himself with the ship's controls, but he stiffened when Dai Atlas spoke. His energy field was pulled close to his armor, difficult to read, but it sang with tension.

"I don't belong here," he said.

Dai Atlas folded his arms. He would never have dreamed, when Drift first came here, that they would one day have this conversation. "You've earned your belonging. You fought for Wing. You fought for the city. You are one of us."

Drift shot him a cutting smile over his shoulder. "_That_ sounded like it hurt." Dai Atlas grimaced, ruffling his plating. It had. But he'd meant it: Drift had earned his right to stay with them.

"You may think I'm one of you, but the Decepticons still think I'm one of _them_, and they won't release their claim," Drift said, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the controls. "Lockdown was only the beginning. Megatron won't give up on me so easily. You have no idea what's coming. I can't… I can't bring more danger down on this place."

"And Wing?"

Drift twitched, his plating snapping close to his frame.

"Redline says he can be brought out of stasis in a few days. Would you leave without saying goodbye?"

"He was hurt because of me," Drift muttered. "Because of what I brought here. He won't want to talk to me."

"Are we speaking of the same Wing?" Dai Atlas asked, a trace of humor creeping into his normally stern voice. Drift's engine revved softly.

"I know what he'll say. He'll say 'I forgive you' and I don't deserve…" He broke off, shaking his head. "It's better this way."

Dai Atlas vented a slow stream of air. If forgiveness was what Drift sought, he had a long, hard journey ahead.

"You are no longer a prisoner here," he said finally. "You are free to go where you wish." He turned to leave Drift alone with the ship again, with one last admonishment. "But I believe you do Wing a disservice not to see him."

* * *

Drift waited until the middle of Theophany's night cycle, when the streets were quiet and the medbay was technically closed to visitors—as if it was hard for Turmoil's ex-SIC to break into a medbay—to visit Wing.

The Great Sword, leaned carefully against the CR chamber, was _looking_ at him. Considering him.

A shiver ran through Drift's plating as he remembered how it had felt in his hand. There was something—something _alive_ about it, something he had felt in that moment when his Spark had sung in tune with the nexus on the hilt. Something impossibly ancient, incomprehensible, with a comforting tinge of Wing's presence. Something that had looked inside him, and judged him. In the moment they had worked in perfect tandem—one single avenging stroke against the creature that had felled Wing—but afterward, Drift had felt strangely violated. Even _afraid_.

A sword could not reach inside him and control him. It was a piece of metal. Nothing more. Certainly nothing to fear.

But it was _staring_ at him.

Drift tore his gaze away, gave the readouts a cursory glance, and turned his attention instead to Wing. Although the CR chamber's green glow cast a sickly pall across his face, he looked serene as ever, his optics dimmed in stasis. Most of his superficial injuries from the battle had healed already, leaving only scuffs in his plating. It was the wound in his chest that drew Drift's closest attention. There was no longer a gaping hole in his Spark chamber, but the white glow of his Spark still pushed through hairline fractures in the casing.

Drift moved closer without thinking, reaching out to rest a hand on the glass. He could still remember the fragile warmth of the guttering Spark when he had covered that tear with this same hand. The same warmth he felt when he pressed his forehead to Wing's chest when they interfaced. And to think it had almost gone out of the world—

Drift wrenched his hand away, staggering back a step.

Because of him. Because of him, this city had been made vulnerable. Because of him, Wing had nearly died.

And this… this _hurting_, when Wing was the one in the CR chamber. Too much like Gasket. Drift was better off alone. Nobody holding him back, nobody finding their way into what little softness was left in his soldier's Spark.

"It's better this way," he said into the silence. He preferred that to choking on _goodbye_.

* * *

There was a moment, when he was hovering somewhere between stasis and waking, that Wing understood the tales of those who claimed they saw their entire life pass in one pulse of their Spark when they were on the verge of offlining. One moment when he relived the battle, saw the gleam of yellow organic eyes, felt the spear smash through his plating. All of that pain condensed into one single instant, from his chest to his fingertips to his wings, searing through his systems like acid.

In that instant he _knew_ he was dying, and he wanted to scream, to fight back against the _unfairness_ of it all. The Circle were trained to prepare for death, to accept it, to go into darkness with quiet dignity, and Wing _knew_ that, he had received the same training. Yet in that instant he was more terrified than he had ever been, all of his consciousness condensing to one imperative.

_I don't want to die._ Plaintive, like a sparkling: fear and need and, for once, selfishness. _Please, I don't want to die!_

And then a voice broke through that fear, that pain, calling his name. A face in his flickering, staticky vision: a clean-lined Cybertronian face, not the scaly horror-show of the slaver. Blue optics that echoed Wing's own fear. He felt the warmth of a hand shielding his guttering Spark, another twining their fingers together. His circuits tingled as the hand pressed a message into them. _I'm here. I'm right here. You're safe._

Caught between present and past, Wing reached out a hand, casting blindly about for the touch he needed, selfishly. His vocalizer crackled.

"Drift…?"

"Easy, Wing. Take it slow. You're still hurt."

That… that wasn't Drift's voice. And this…

Wing's processor finished booting up, breaking free of the memory purge, and piece by piece sorted out what was real, and what was a memory. The medbay. He was in the medbay on a recharge slab. There was no spear in his chest. The plating was white, unmarred, fresh. Still integrating with his systems. Redline was there, his hands gentle but firm on Wing's shoulders—he must have been thrashing. Drift… was not.

"You can sit up, but _slowly_," Redline warned. Wing pushed up onto his elbows, wincing at the pang in his chest. "How do you feel?"

"Sensitive," Wing said, reaching up to touch the new plating.

"That will last a week or so. I don't want you transforming for a few days, to be safe."

Wing swallowed down the question he really wanted to ask. "How long have I been out?"

"You were in stasis for eight days, in critical condition for three." Redline's optics narrowed. "And he isn't here."

Wing's ailerons twitched.

"I told everyone I preferred to bring you out of stasis in privacy," Redline said. Wing's ruffled plating soothed slightly. That… that might explain it. "I knew the memory purge could be traumatic. But, as you can see, you've been missed."

He gestured towards the table cluttered with tiny vials of innermost energon. Without counting, Wing knew there were enough for the entire Circle and a few civilians. And maybe…

He didn't ask if one was Drift's.

"Was anyone else…?"

"None of the Circle, but some of the civilians."

"Civilians?!" His wings half-unfolded in his shock. "Did they find the city? What happened?"

Redline calmly explained about Dai Atlas's decision to lead the civilians into battle, bringing the city to the surface in the process. Wing could scarcely believe it. He'd been arguing with Dai Atlas for _centuries_ to take a more active role, to spread the Circle's ideals instead of hiding under the ground.

_And all it took was a critical injury,_ he thought wryly.

"I never thought he would change his mind."

"Anyone can change," Redline said. "Your Drift showed us that."

(Wing's Spark gave a warm flutter at that. _"My" Drift._ But he pushed those feelings aside—Drift wasn't his. Drift belonged to no one but Drift.)

Finally Wing couldn't stand dancing around it any longer. "Where is he?"

"Drift?" Redline, for the first time, looked uncomfortable. "Probably out by the ships."

"Which ships?"

"The slavers' ship, and the bounty hunter's. He's been overseeing some refits."

About to ask why, Wing realized he didn't have to. He knew. It was a pale echo of the spear impaling his Spark casing.

"I… I see," he said. "When is the launch?"

"Tomorrow morning," Redline said, not meeting Wing's gaze.

"I see," Wing repeated. Then he gingerly swung his legs off the recharge berth.

"Careful," Redline said.

"I know. I—" Wing winced, pressing a hand to the new chest armor. "I… I need to meditate."

Redline let the weak excuse pass with no more than a pitying glance. "Of course. Go easy on your repairs."

He actually did intend to meditate. He had plenty to think about.

With Redline's reservations in mind, Wing sat alone in a locked sparring room, optics offlined. Calm. Serenity. Peace.

So Dai Atlas had finally decided to bring the city to the surface. Wing should be pleased. Wasn't he the one who had urged Dai Atlas, for so long, so spread their message of peace? Wasn't he the one who crept out to the surface for a glimpse of the stars, to feel open air on his wings? He should be delighted. It was everything he'd ever wanted, and yet—

Wing could not sit still. He growled in uncharacteristic frustration and pushed himself up. There was more than one way to meditate, and not all of them involved stillness. Despite the twinge in his chest, he chose two practice blades and returned to the center of the room. A slow practice form, or six, wouldn't aggravate his injuries too much, would it?

The swords were meant to be extensions of his arms. This was meant to be a slow, steady flow of movement. Wing caught himself making beginner mistakes—his footwork was sloppy, his grip was wrong. If _he_ were training a student who made such errors, he would send him off to cool down. He tried to rein in his frustration.

What was _wrong_ with him? No wonder he'd been defeated in battle, if his swordplay was so woefully—no. No, he couldn't think that way. He had been at his best. His best simply… hadn't been enough.

He wasn't half the knight he should be.

The thought stung a harsh cry from his vocalizer as his thoughts finally pierced the knot that had grown in his Spark since the memory purge. Afraid to die. _Afraid to die!_ A knight should lay down his life willingly. He had stepped forward to sacrifice himself for his city, but in that instant when the blade touched his Spark, he had been a terrified sparkling. Not a knight.

Shame burned in his Spark as his swords hummed angrily through the air. A knight was calm. A knight was unafraid. A knight was detached. A knight did not let his emotions control him. A knight…

Wing bit down a scream and flung one of the swords. It crashed against the wall and onto the ground, and Wing took a moment's vicious pleasure in causing a mess for once, even as he proved Dai Atlas right. Wing's greatest flaw: he allowed his emotions to lead him.

"Is that so wrong?" he demanded of the empty room. "I know what's right! I _feel_ it! Should it be against our laws to do what I know I must?!"

Peerless warmed on his back. He reached for it, as he had in battle, but this time uninterrupted by an alien spear. The Great Sword seemed to hum in his grasp, as it always had, since the day it chose him. The blue gem flared with his unquiet Spark. It seemed more active than he remembered, the shadow of a new presence. New, but not entirely unfamiliar. He knew that fire, that fury…

He nearly dropped the sword. Instead he slung it onto his back again, the gem quieting as it left his hands.

His folded wings twitched. He needed air.

Despite Redline's warning, Wing transformed and took to the night sky the minute he was outside. It was a new view, Crystal City's towers under the stars instead of stalactites. It looked even more beautiful.

_How_, he thought with a pang, _could anyone want to leave this? How could he?!_

_How… Dai Atlas, forgive me… how could _I_?_

With his engines howling and the wind whispering over his wings, he finally faced the crux of the problem.

Drift had always planned to leave the city, to win his war. Wing had thought that might have changed, when Drift decided to fight alongside them, but it seemed Drift could hardly wait to go. He had always been restless, it was his way: Drift needed to move, to take an active part. He wasn't made to stay in one place, even a place as beautiful as Crystal City.

The night they'd first interfaced, Wing had whispered something so quietly that Drift hadn't even heard him. _I'd go with you_. It had been a momentary impulse, one he had thought about often since, but always with a vague "someday." Not "tomorrow." Now… _now_…

Wing flew until his engines whined, until his fuel tank burned and his plating shivered and the new plating over his Spark ached; until the stars began to fade one by one and the first light of Theophany's dawn touched the sky. He returned to the city, flying one last long circle around the perimeter.

At least he would see the sun rise over Crystal City once.

He transmitted an automatic response to Redline's frantic pings as he alighted at the Citadel. This early, scarcely anyone was around, but he knew he would find who he was looking for as he moved quietly through the meditation chambers one by one.

Dai Atlas did not even look up. "I've heard your friend Drift is making his preparations to leave."

"Yes," Wing said, coming to a halt at a close, but respectful distance. Dai Atlas shuffled his plating in the silence.

"I've never known you to ask my permission, Wing," he said wearily. When he turned to face the smaller mech, he looked resigned.

"Your blessing, then," Wing said.

Dai Atlas muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Oh, Winglet." Wing's Spark twinged—how long had it been since he had heard that endearment? Not since he became a full member of the Circle, at least. Longer. When Dai Atlas's hand settled on his shoulder, he could hear the unasked questions. _Are you sure?_ and _Are you doing this for the right reasons?_ He would not ask, because they both knew that Wing never did anything unless he was sure, and they had never seen eye-to-eye on the reasons.

Instead, Dai Atlas said, "I always knew this day would come. I knew that, out of all of us, it would be you. Always looking beyond this place."

"To where I am needed more," Wing said gently.

Atlas's hand squeezed his shoulder. "You are the best of us, Wing."

"No—!"

"You have my permission," Dai Atlas said gravely. "_And_ my blessing." He leaned his towering form down far enough to press his mouth lightly to the top of Wing's helm. "Go well," he said. "And, when you can, return safely to us."

"I will," Wing said, voice thick with emotion.

* * *

He was ready to leave. And still Drift lingered.

He made excuses: pre-flight checks, one last inspection, reviewing his plans one more time. But everything was ready. The freed slaves were settled on board the slavers' liberated ship, which even had a name, agreed upon by its new passengers and translated into all of their various languages. In Cybertronian it was _Storm's End_, but in all translations it meant more or less the same thing: an end to hardship, the beginning of peace.

_Optimistic_, Drift thought. The storm was over for them, but his journey was only beginning.

_Storm's End_ was stocked with all the supplies the representatives of dozens of alien species would need for their journey. The refugees had taken over the crewing of the ship, moving their families into the slavers' empty quarters. The shuttle bay was full of the dropships that would bring them home as _Storm's End_ passed their planets, moons, and asteroids. There was space for Lockdown's little ship, now Drift's, but for the launch he preferred to fly himself. Some symbolism there, Wing would say.

In the middle of checking the flight controls one more time, Drift shuttered his optics. _Don't think of him._

Better that they launch as soon as possible. _Storm's End_ was prepped, they had sent their confirmation a few minutes ago. There was no sense in lingering. Better to get this over with quickly, like yanking a knife from a wound.

Footsteps tapped softly towards the cockpit. Too light for Dai Atlas or Axe. One of the Circle coming to bid him farewell, or ask him to stay, or tell him good riddance, probably.

"Were you not even going to say goodbye?"

Drift's Spark pulsed bright and sharp, a stinging hurt. "Wing."

He turned, but couldn't look at his face for more than a moment before guilt chewed at the corners of his fuel tank. His optics flicked down to Wing's chest instead. The plating was fresh and clean, with no sign that he'd been injured at all. The Great Sword was in its accustomed place on his back, and he felt that it was watching him again.

"Were you going to fly away and never look back?" Wing asked, quiet, with a hint of accusation.

"It's not… it's not like that." Slag Redline to the Pit! Couldn't he have kept Wing in stasis for another day? "I already explained this to Dai Atlas."

"Explain it to _me_, Drift," Wing said, and Drift's name became a weapon good as any fusion cannon.

There were many things he could have said, but in the end, Drift opted for honesty. "You were hurt because of me."

"That was my choice."

"And this is mine."

He pushed past Wing—with more care than he would have taken normally, given Wing's injuries—towards the rest of the ship. Wing dogged his heels.

"You said this was what you wanted!" Wing cried. "I thought this meant something to you! I thought _we_ meant something!"

"It isn't…" Drift winced. "It isn't _us_ that's the problem. When we first met I promised to take these slaves home, remember? That's what I'm going to do, and then… I have to find my own path."

He reached the energon store and looked inside. His optics narrowed in confusion. He'd asked for enough for a long voyage, but this…?!

"This is too much," he said out loud.

"No," Wing said softly. "It isn't."

Drift whirled on him. Wing had his arms folded over his chest. Not confrontational, but resolute, with that particular stubborn set of his mouth that Drift had come to recognize.

"Wing… I can't ask you to do this." His processor seemed to be having trouble getting words out of his vocalizer. Probably something to do with the way his Spark had just kicked into overdrive. "This is your home. It means everything to you."

"Everything?" Wing echoed, his expression softening. One of his hands brushed Drift's wrist. "Drift, you asked me why I snuck out… why I flouted the Circle's laws. To do what's right. To be where I am needed."

His hand moved up to rest delicately on Drift's chest, just over his Spark, as he took a step closer.

"I have always respected your wishes," he whispered. "Now respect mine. It was my choice to stand beside you in battle. It is my choice to come with you now."

Drift seized Wing's helm by the audial flares and dragged him into a kiss. Wing moaned into it, clinging to Drift like he was the only solid thing in the universe.

"Let me come with you," Wing gasped. "Let me be by your side. Let us find our path together."

"Yes," Drift hissed. "Yes, _yes_."

* * *

"_Storm's End_ is set for launch," Wing said from the copilot's station. He hummed thoughtfully. "I'm rewriting the registry now. What should we call her?"

His smile was infectious. Drift shrugged and looked away before he caught it. He wasn't good at this stuff. Naming things, giving them meaning. He's have been happy to just call it "the ship" or something. But if it was important to Wing… "I don't know. You decide."

Even when he wasn't _looking_ he could feel that smile brighten.

"Hmm." Wing's fingers clicked on the controls for a minute.

"We're set anytime," Drift reminded him. He hated long goodbyes.

Wing leaned into the comm console. "This is _Wayward Light_, requesting clearance to leave."

"Acknowledged, _Wayward Light_." The big bot himself, Dai Atlas's voice coming over the comm. "You have your clearance. Good luck."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Drift said, taking the controls. "Let's get started."


	2. It's Full of Stars

**A/N:** This chapter contains sticky.

In which our heroes don't talk about the things they should, and break in the hab suites instead.

* * *

**2. It's Full of Stars**

* * *

The creature on the comm screen had bluish-gray skin of fine scales and two pairs of sea-green eyes, one atop the other, blinking in eerie tandem. Its delicate gills undulated slowly.

"Three Arcadroids," he said. Drift could _barely_ understand him. His translation protocols covered most of the major galactic languages, but more than that hadn't been necessary for a Decepticon soldier, and this creature had an unusual dialect. He kept missing words. Fortunately, Wing's translation protocols were apparently _loaded_ with all manner of languages, dialects, and accents.

"We'll make the Nalva System our heading, then," Wing said, or at least Drift was reasonably certain he did. "It's close. At _Storm's End_'s pace we can reach it in a week."

"You will save fuel if _Wayward Light_ docks with us," the refugee said. (Drift assumed he meant _Wayward Light_. What he really said was more like "wandering star," but the meaning was close enough.)

"Thank you, Halet'h," Wing said. "For now we are still testing how she runs in deep space, but we will dock with you soon."

"We appreciate all you have done for us," Halet'h said with a formal little bow and a flare of his gills. Drift's translator couldn't handle the word he tacked onto the end, but it made Wing stiffen subtly.

"Just Wing," he said, giving a simplified Cybertronian pronunciation—phonetic only. Halet'h wrapped his strange mouth around the sound and blinked twice.

"Understood, Wing-friend. Over and out."

"What's that he called you?" Drift asked as the comm screen blinked out. Wing shifted.

"Back-From-Death," he said. "Someone must have told them…" He shook his head and shrugged, but Drift knew he was disquieted.

"I guess some people don't know what a CR chamber is for."

Wing tried a smile. He touched the new plating on his chest. "I _thought_ I was dead."

"So did I," Drift admitted. He reached out—the cockpit was small enough that he could touch Wing from his station—to brush his fingertips against the folded wings on his back. "I guess they found out we're not that easy to kill."

Wing nudged into the touch, his mood lightening. He changed the subject quickly.

"So this was Lockdown's ship?"

"Right. But your people helped me redesign her."

Wing hummed, running a hand along the console's familiar lines. At least he wouldn't get too homesick. "So he's dead?"

"No, he got away." Drift scowled at the starfield. He had a feeling they hadn't seen the last of Lockdown.

"Why didn't he take his ship?"

Drift snorted. "He had a city full of angry Cybertronians on his tailpipe. He grabbed the closest thing with an engine and ran for it like the coward he is."

Wing grinned sidelong at him. "You think he'll mind?"

"He's welcome to come back for it. I owe him a rematch."

"You held your own."

"Yeah, well. All that training was good for something. I must have learned something while you were throwing me around."

Wing's smile flashed again. "You _are_ improving, Drift. I've noticed, even if you have not. And you… you defeated the slaver?"

"Well, that was mostly…" Drift made a vague gesture towards the Great Sword leaning against Wing's console. "That doesn't count."

Wing tilted his head in that inquisitive way of his. "What happened?"

"I killed him," Drift said flatly. "That's it. So a week? Think we can keep from getting space-fever?"

Wing was silent for a moment, watching Drift; then he smiled, chipper again, letting Drift change the subject. "I can operate comfortably in a vacuum, so if I get cramped, I can go outside. It's _you_ I'm worried about. I suppose it's too much to hope that you will learn to meditate peacefully in the next few days."

"I bet you can think of some way to keep me occupied," Drift said with a crooked smirk, planting a foot on Wing's chair.

Wing's optic ridges rose innocently. "We can clear enough space in the hold for sparring…"

"Yeah, you smacking me around isn't _exactly_ what I had in mind."

"Pity. Well, in that case…" Wing stood and stretched indulgently. His wings unfolded and flexed experimentally; Drift resisted the urge to catch one, but by the way Wing smiled, he'd seen the way Drift's optics followed each movement as the wings tucked back into place. He slid the Great Sword into its channel on his back. "I suppose we should choose hab suites."

"Habitation suite" was a rather generous term for the tiny compartments that ringed the upper deck. Lockdown had converted one to a medbay, and the one next to it into a brig. So "choose" also turned out to be overly optimistic, since Drift had already decided which of the remaining two was his. Wing slid open the door of the next hab suite and Drift followed him in.

"This one's mine," he said.

"Oh," Wing said. "Well. It looks like my decision was made for me."

"That's what you get for being in a CR chamber for a week. Last choice of hab suite." Drift stepped forward, sliding his hands over Wing's hips. "But as long as you're in here anyway…"

Wing grinned. "Already?"

_You almost died_, Drift thought. _I thought I'd lose you forever, but here you are, with me. _

"We're alone in a room for the first time since the battle, and you expect me to hold back?" he asked.

"When you put it that way," Wing said, stepping back until his legs clinked gently against the berth, leading Drift like a shadow. His hands alighted on either side of Drift's helm, pulling him into their first kiss since before the battle. Drift made an embarrassingly needy sound into it, sliding his arms further around the jet. His fingers brushed the Great Sword and he jerked his hands away as though burned. He'd never been quite so… _aware_ of it before.

"Did you _have_ to bring that if you knew what we were… nnf… going to do?" he grumbled into Wing's mouth.

"I thought we were choosing hab suites," Wing said; his unconvincing tone wasn't helped by the amused gleam of his optics. "How was I to know?"

As soon as the sword was leaning against the wall, Drift pressed back into the kiss, pushing until Wing sat down hard on the berth.

"Ow."

"Sorry."

Drift let him lie back and get comfortable before climbing on, kneeling between Wing's thighs.

"Take it easy on me," Wing said sheepishly, brushing a hand across his new plating. "It's not exactly what we had in mind, but…"

Drift nibbled on Wing's mouthplates, settling his hand on top of Wing's. "I'd never hurt you," he murmured.

In the light of Wing's brilliant smile, he shifted so he could get his fingers under some sensitive wiring. Wing purred, shifting minutely. He arched up just enough to let his wings unfold, twitching in invitation. Drift smoothed his hands along the delicate plating.

"Don't know why you ever put these away," he said, teasing an aileron.

"One," Wing said, "we're going to be stuck on a tiny spaceship for weeks at a time, and there really isn't room for them. Two…" He chirred in pleasure as Drift explored the joints one by one. "They're sensitive."

"Mm-hm."

"Three, they're distracting… _nn_…!"

Apparently he liked having the wingtips tweaked. Drift filed that away even as he grinned. "Distracting?"

"To _you_," Wing grumbled, but his Spark wasn't in it, not with the way every piece of him arched up towards Drift for more touch. Drift happily gave it to him, taking his time with the sensitive new plating of his chest, lovingly mapping his sides.

Then he stopped. Wing keened, optics flicking on.

"What's wrong?"

Drift shifted. "It's… the sword," he muttered. Wing turned his head to look at the Great Sword, leaning against the wall next to the berth.

"What about it?"

"It's _staring_ at me," Drift said. "I can't concentrate."

Wing didn't laugh at him—he knew more about the Great Swords, and about Drift, than that—but he did let the smile tug at his mouth as he levered up onto his elbow and carefully lowered the sword to the floor, edging it slightly under the berth, out of sight.

"Better?"

"A little." Drift slithered further down Wing's body. His hand slid between the jet's legs to brush against his panel. Wing's hips twitched upwards, the panel sliding open eagerly. He sighed as Drift's fingers circled his valve.

They hadn't had much time to thoroughly explore each other's bodies between the time they first interfaced and the battle with the slavers, and most of their overloads had been tactile. Drift had brought Wing to overload with his fingers in his valve twice before, but that was about the extent of it. Well, plenty of time now to familiarize themselves.

"Drift," Wing gasped when Drift dipped his fingers inside. He was already slightly slippery from the thorough exploration of his wings.

Wing squeaked in surprise when Drift lifted his hips, getting his shoulders under the jet's knees. His new plating gave a slight twinge, but that was completely forgotten when Drift's glossa teased the rim of his valve. "_Drift_."

"Remember, take it easy," Drift reminded him with a wicked smirk. Wing's hands clawed at the berth as Drift ducked his head and _oh_. N-not strictly perfect technique, but he was _earnest_, and a fast learner. Wing swallowed a cry when Drift's glossa went questing for all the most sensitive nodes. The grounder's hands supported his hips, thumbs tracing little circles on the armor. Wing didn't really need the support—his entire body arched up on its own, trying to press closer. His head tilted back, optics going offline, and his mind was full of stars.

Drift's glossa helped him through his overload, demanding and giving all at once. Wing's cooling fans roared as he cried out harshly. It took every ounce of what control he had left not to squeeze his thighs around Drift's helm, but then the charge dissipated through his frame and into the berth. He laughed without knowing why as Drift carefully lowered his hips back to the berth.

"You okay?"

"_Better_," Wing said, optics coming back online in time to see Drift's crooked grin. "I… thank you. For that."

"I don't want Redline flying out here to lecture us," Drift said, moving back up his body. "Don't want to hurt you."

Wing shifted aside. "Over. Roll over."

It only took a little give in Drift's struts for Wing to come smoothly out on top, just like sparring. He comfortably straddled Drift's midsection, black fingers skimming white armor.

"Your turn," he said with his brightest smile, the one that made Drift's Spark flutter. He leaned down for a kiss, sliding his fingers under Drift's spaulders at the same time. As with many of Wing's kisses, it turned into an affectionate nibble. And as usual, Drift's engine revved under his hands as he bit back. Wing grinned into it, hands racing to find all the most sensitive spots he'd found through weeks of sparring. Drift's cooling fans kicked up another notch.

"Cheating," he growled—possibly closer to a groan.

"You know me," Wing said, unashamed, pressing their foreheads together as he grinned at his lover. "I don't _always_ play by the rules."

Drift grumbled something incomprehensible, his hands running along Wing's thighs. Wing could feel every twitch as his fingers played with sensitive wiring. "You like it?"

"Yeah," Drift muttered.

"Then it's not," Wing kissed him again, "cheating."

He straightened and rocked his hips backward until he could feel Drift's spike. Drift jolted, engine revving noisily.

"Drift," Wing said, a little hesitant for the first time, "do you… would you like…"

"Yes," Drift groaned. "Yes, _yes_."

Wing angled his hips just right to catch the tip of Drift's spike at the rim of his valve. He sank onto it with a roll of his hips, settling comfortably, and both of them moaned.

"Wing," Drift moaned. Wing rode him oh-so-slowly, savoring every moment as he rolled his hips in little circles. "Wing , I _need_…"

"We're 'going easy,' aren't we?" Wing reminded him, amusement mixed with pleasure. "And besides, patience… _nn_… has its rewards."

"You learn that from the Circle?" Drift quipped, planting his feet on the berth to rock his hips up. Wing grinned mischievously.

"They taught me everything I know," he said, with a clever little move that had Drift's optics flickering.

He braced his hands on the berth on either side of Drift's head, the better to drink in his reactions. He liked seeing his partners lost in pleasure, Drift even more so.

"I couldn't handle your sword staring at me, what makes you think I can handle you?" Drift grumbled abruptly.

Wing ducked down to kiss him. "I didn't expect you to be so shy."

Drift snorted, but Wing could tell he was embarrassed. "I've done kinkier stuff than this."

"Oh, I believe you." He rubbed their nasal ridges together and confessed, "I love watching you."

Drift's fingers dipped into the seam at his waist as his hips twitched up, getting his spike a little deeper to make Wing gasp. "All right."

Wing didn't want to make him uncomfortable—he didn't have to see everything to _feel_ Drift's pleasure in every shift of his body. He rested on his forearms, close enough to exchange kisses and nips as Drift spiraled higher.

"Wing," the grounder gasped. "Too _slow_—frag—"

Wing crooned soothingly at him, running his hands all over Drift's helm—so new, his last upgrade from New Crystal City—from his jaw to the tips of his finials. "Shh, shh… trust me…"

Drift whined, wound tight from his approaching overload. Wing worked his valve's calipers around Drift's spike, resting their foreheads together. "Show me, Drift. Show me."

Drift's hips stuttered, his engine roared, and he snarled into Wing's mouth as he toppled into overload. Wing rode it out, moaning at the sensation of transfluid seeping out around Drift's spike.

"What do you know," Drift sighed. "I guess you _can_ overload going that slow."

Wing laughed, nibbling on his glossa. "Told you so."

He gave Drift a moment to recover before easing off of his spike, tucking his body up against Drift's side with one leg tossed over him. Drift's hand slid up his thigh, finding his own transfluid leaking out of the valve. Wordlessly he pressed his fingers inside. Wing moaned, squirming—he was running hot again, but he hadn't wanted to ask—and Drift nipped at his mouthplates.

"There you are. Doing okay?"

Wing nodded frantically. "I'm fine. I'm… _nn_."

He rocked his hips, trying to get more. Drift's fingers retreated to tease the sensors just inside the rim.

"Mm, nope…" There was more than a little Deadlock in his grin as he avoided giving Wing everything he wanted. "Didn't you say patience has rewards?"

Wing managed a laugh, even as he tried to press his aching valve down onto Drift's hand. "I did. Turnabout… _ah_… is fair play. I s-suppose."

"Then be patient," Drift said, pressing kisses all along his jawline until Wing stopped squirming. "That's it." He pushed his fingers in deep again. "That's good, Wing. You trust me?"

Wing nodded, barely restraining himself from squirming on Drift's hand. Drift's mouth moved along his audial flare.

"That's good. Shhh-shh… I've got you."

Wing whined as those far-too-clever fingers worked him, wringing him out to the very edge of his considerable patience. "Drift…!"

"Can't follow your own rules?" Drift's sharp grin flashed teasingly at him. "Ask nicely and I'll let you off this once."

"_Please_, Drift, please…!"

"Good," Drift said, his fingers suddenly driving, demanding. Wing writhed, his cooling fans working overtime. Drift's engine purred in contentment. "I see what you mean about watching."

As much as Wing loved watching, _being_ watched was even more potent. Knowing Drift's optics were focused on him, knowing Drift could feel every little pleading squirm, sent fire blazing straight to Wing's valve. He overloaded on Drift's clever fingers, a messy spill of lubricants and Drift's transfluid. Drift's fingers gave his oversensitized nodes one last fond rub before pulling gently away.

"Mm. Slow is nice and all, but that was more fun."

Wing laughed wearily, tucking his face into Drift's neck. "Fine. I concede."

Their cooling fans were still running on high, but neither of them wanted to move, even if it was hotter curled up together.

"How's the wound?"

"Holding up."

Wing propped his chin on Drift's shoulder, smiling at him. Drift almost said _I'm glad you're here_, but instead he rubbed a spot just behind Wing's fins to make him purr.

Wing butted his head against Drift's chin, gently. "We really _should_ dock with _Storm's End_ now."

"But I like having you all to myself."

"I think we'll have plenty of time to ourselves in the future," Wing pointed out.

Drift grumbled, but his Spark wasn't in it. "Fine. Fine. If you say so."

At least something good would come of shepherding freed slaves across the galaxy. It might keep Wing from getting curious about what had happened at the end of the battle. At least it would give Drift an excuse to keep avoiding the subject. This other thing… this thing with the sword… that could wait.


	3. Turns-From-Darkness

**3. Turns-From-Darkness  
**

* * *

_Storm's End_ was teeming, positively _seething_, with organic life-forms, pitiful refugees. One thing Drift could say was that he had never been so gladly received in his entire life. The freed slaves recognized him and Wing, of course, and every one of them wanted to make its appreciation known. What, he wondered, would gutter-rat Drift have thought of so many smiles, so many greetings in so many languages, directed towards him? What about Deadlock?

Drift was utterly unused to people actually being pleased to see him. He drew closer to Wing, feeling self-conscious. His instinct was to scowl, to fluff out his plating to intimidate the watchers, but he shoved that instinct down. They meant no harm. He managed a neutral expression, keeping close to Wing's elbow. The jet could be gracious enough for both of them.

Wing, of course, accepted the attention with good grace, smiling at all of them and returning greetings in a dozen strange languages. He glanced back at Drift and his energy field skittered with amusement, brushing and sliding soothingly across Drift's. Drift's field rippled, sullen. He would rather be on _Wayward Light_, alone with Wing. He had a few more ideas about all the things he'd like them to do in private.

Wing's field warmed with a lick of echoed desire, tempered by patience. _There will be time_, it seemed to say. _Plenty of time._

Drift had explored _Storm's End_ before, but Wing had been in the CR chamber during the refits, so Drift indulged his eagerness. _Wayward Light_, docked in the shuttle bay, would still be their personal quarters, but they would ride in _Storm's End_'s belly to conserve fuel until the last of the refugees were safely home. So he pointed out fuel storage, living quarters, and washracks as they passed by. Wing's plating gave an eager ruffle at that last one.

"That will be nice," he said. Drift's engine rumbled in agreement.

"Wing-friend! Drift-friend!"

It was Halet'h's slightly bubbly voice—not cheerful-bubbly, but literally as though he were speaking underwater bubbly. In person he was smaller than he appeared on the comm screen in _Wayward Light's_ cockpit. He stood just about to Drift's waist. Shorter when he bowed, hands spread and gills flapping.

"Welcome aboard _Storm's End_," he said. "We are honored to greet you."

Wing returned the little bow. Drift did not. Halet'h didn't seem to mind.

"Our people still remember when yours were known as a helpful species," Halet'h said. "You do your ancestors proud."

"Only too happy," Drift said, straight-faced. "After all, helping another is the highest calling one can aspire to."

Wing's expressive energy field spiked like tiny needles against his as the jet made a choking noise he turned into a polite cough. Unlike Halet'h, _he_ could feel the relentless subvoc sarcasm and pointed teasing.

Halet'h nodded sagely. "Wise words," he said, and once again he tacked on a final word that Drift's translator stumbled over. Wing's energy field fizzed in surprise, but he gave no outward sign.

"You will let us know if there is anything else we can do," Wing said, serene as ever to alien ears.

"You are already doing more for us than we dreamed," Halet'h said. "Please. The hospitality of _Storm's End_ is yours, if we can make the journey more comfortable for you."

Drift stepped in before the politeness judo escalated any further. "Yes, thank you, we'll let you know," he said, nudging Wing's arm. Wing and Halet'h bowed _again_ by way of farewell.

Wing kept his silence as they headed back towards their ship, keeping his energy field drawn close. Drift didn't think he was _too_ irritated. Then again, Wing had always been good at hiding any negative emotions from him. Until their confrontation before leaving Crystal City, Drift had never seen him angry once, no matter how much he deserved it.

Wing didn't break his silence until they were safely up the ramp into _Wayward Light's_ hold.

"_Very_ funny, Drift," he said drily. "And I do _not_ sound like that."

"Are you kidding?!" Drift said, unable to keep a straight face any longer. He made sure to layer all of his most Wing-like subvocs. "You sound _just_ like that. That's _exactly_ what you sound like."

Wing retaliated with a staggering exaggeration of Drift's subvoc tones. "Oh, honestly."

"You do, and _this_ is your arguing-with-Dai-Atlas spectrum when you get all worked up about protecting the innocent and helping the helpless."

"That's it," Wing threatened, dropping into a crouch. "I can't stand by and take this from the likes of you, Decepticon."

Drift leapt at him. Wing pivoted around him. Drift managed to dodge a sweeping foot, but the jet caught his arm and locked his elbow joint with a deceptively gentle touch, then ducked and sent Drift flying over his shoulder. Drift hit the floor in a roll and came back up onto his feet, vents whirring in excitement. If there was one skill he'd definitely managed to pick up, it was being thrown without damaging himself.

He came in low at Wing's legs, but Wing sidestepped him again, his energy field warm with pleasure. For all that the Circle of Light were supposed to be peaceful, Wing rarely seemed happier than when displaying his skills. It was almost enough to forgive him for handing Drift his aft five times a day. At least every time Drift hit the ground, he got to look up at a dazzling smile.

It ended as it usually did: Drift facedown on the ground with Wing's weight resting on his lower backstruts, one arm twisted up behind his back.

"Do you yield?" Wing asked. Drift thrashed uselessly, with a frustrated growl, but he was still grinning. Wing rode the movement easily.

"Fine," Drift said. Wing laughed and shifted his weight so Drift could sit up, then offered a hand to haul him to his feet. His fans were whirring.

"Made you work for it that time," Drift said.

"A little," Wing acknowledged with a grin.

"And now's the time you tell me you've been holding back all along."

"Never," Wing said, an innocent sparkle in his optics. He stepped in close to brush a kiss across Drift's mouthplates, but darted just out of reach when Drift tried for more.

"Fraggin' quick," Drift muttered, though it was hard to be grumpy with Wing's kiss still warm on his mouth.

"You're getting better. I promise."

Drift poked at a dent in his plating. "What did Halet'h call me back there?"

"Oh." Wing gave him a shy smile. "Turns-From-Darkness."

Drift's plating ruffled. "I guess someone told them my story."

"Wasn't me," Wing said. "I was in the CR chamber the whole time."

"Back-From-Death and Turns-From-Darkness," Drift said. "We make quite the pair."

"Yes," Wing said quietly. He reached out and just barely intertwined their fingertips, as though uncertain how Drift would take the affectionate touch. Drift pressed their hands closer, examining the interplay of the black fingers, the clean lines of New Crystal City's designs, meant for more elegant pursuits than war.

"Speaking of stories," he said, "you never told me yours."

"I don't have a story," Wing said.

"I don't believe that. Who were you before all this?"

"All this?"

"The war. The Circle. All this."

"No one interesting, I'm afraid," Wing said with a wry smile, shrugging one shoulder. Avoidance, from someone normally so open and talkative. Drift gave him a pointed look. "It was a lifetime ago, Drift. When joining the Circle, a knight is expected to leave the past behind."

"Why did you join the Circle, then?"

"To find a path," Wing said. That wry smile twisted again. "I suppose we're still looking, aren't we?" He squeezed Drift's hand, then let go. "I think I'll meditate."

Drift felt as though he'd stepped too near some boundary as Wing settled down right where he was, pulling the Great Sword from his back in one movement and laying it across his lap—like a barrier. He'd never had that _way_ with people that Wing had. That Gasket had had. The words didn't come easily to him. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't," Wing said. "And I didn't mean to disappoint you. I know our ways can be as strange to you as the Decepticons' are to me." His energy field reached out to reassure Drift that all was well. "Would you care to join me?"

Drift knew a peace offering when he saw one, even though he grumbled as he settled down across from Wing. "You know I'm not good at this."

"There's nothing to be good _at_," Wing said. "It's meant to be a relaxation, not a chore."

His ventilations were already settling, his fans quieting to a whisper. His optics faded to a dim glow.

"What am I supposed to think about?"

"Think about nothing," Wing said, as though that were the easiest thing in the world. "And then you'll…" He broke off with a little laugh. "Never mind. We'll keep it simple. Just try to clear your mind."

Drift's plating shifted and he vented a little huff.

"You know you don't have to do it this way," Wing said, smiling a little, but with the faintest hint of exasperation. Drift knew it was because every time he fragged this up, Wing had to interrupt his own perfect meditation to start Drift on something else. But he settled himself down stubbornly.

"I can try again," he said. "I want to know what it's like for you."

Wing's fingers slid absently along the Great Sword's hilt, making the gem glow faintly. "All right," he said. "Just try to relax, Drift."

So Drift shut off his optics and tried. It seemed like every little creak _Wayward Light_ made was a dozen times louder. Little pings and tones from the cockpit made him twitch. Even the sound of his own vents was too loud. And he could never settle properly. His plating was rubbing wrong, or a cable was twisted, or a wire was pinched, and he couldn't sit still.

Think about nothing? How the frag was he supposed to think about nothing? He was a warrior, he had instincts. There was something here he just wasn't getting, and the harder he tried, the further he was from "relaxed."

"Drift?" Wing's voice was quiet and sleepy. "You don't have to…"

"Do I have to shut my optics off?" Drift asked, onlining them.

"Whatever works," Wing said. He still sounded like he was half in recharge. "The point is to do whatever makes _you_ comfortable. Your way doesn't have to be the same as mine."

Drift hummed in acknowledgement, letting Wing slip back into whatever he had been not-thinking about. If thinking about nothing made him think about _everything_, what if he focused on just one thing? Just one thing to hold his attention?

So he focused on Wing's face. One he knew well by now, after all the time they'd spent together. Now he let himself inspect as though seeing Wing for the first time. His attention drifted in a spiral from Wing's mouth up the graceful lines of his audial fins, along the shapes of his helm, down to his shoulder. He explored the clean planes of his armor, the brief glimpses of vulnerable wiring at his joints, the bold flashes of red. He lost himself in the lines and curves that the Circle of Light had developed into their signature. Wing looked so different from any of the soldiers Drift had known with the Decepticons, built for power and endurance and intimidation. Wing's armor was a visual representation of the Circle's teachings. Everything working in harmony, flowing together, a careful balance of form and function.

On a sublevel of thought, Drift noticed that his vents were running smooth and even, and the only tension in his wiring was to keep him upright. Pleased with himself, he kept his focus on Wing.

It didn't happen all at once; it was so subtle that it took Drift some time to realize what he was seeing. But the nexus of the Great Sword gleamed between Wing's fingers, growing brighter, softly pulsing in a slow rhythm, like the thrum of a Spark. It was enough to jar Drift's focus. He hadn't seen Wing slip this deep into meditation for a long time, not since New Crystal City. His fault, admittedly. And not since—not since before Drift had held the Great Sword.

At least, for the moment, the sword wasn't watching him. It was focused on Wing. But Drift still eyed it like a live grenade. What was it like for Wing now? Did he feel that presence, ancient and powerful, whispering in his Spark with words too old to understand? When he'd held the sword in battle, Drift had felt something vast pulling on him like a singularity. Was that where Wing was now, lost in that vastness? How would he find his way back, and would he be the same when he did?

A shiver worked its way up Drift's spinal plates. "Wing."

"Drift," Wing said, but in a slow and sleepy voice entirely unlike his own, as the nexus of the Great Sword flared. Drift's short-lived relaxation vanished utterly, leaving him wound tight and frozen in place. He needed to go to Wing, hold him, reassure himself with touch, but he didn't dare go near the Wing-that-was-not-Wing while the Great Sword held him. It took a long moment to find his voice again.

"Come back," he said.

Slowly, too slowly for Drift's liking, the blue glow around the sword faded. Wing's plating rustled. Finally his optics flickered online.

"Drift?" he asked, his same familiar voice. "Are you all right?"

Drift's battle systems were running, sharpening his perception and pushing back unnecessary processes. He pushed up from the floor, engine revving hard. Wing's optics followed him, concerned, but he wasn't the only one watching—Drift could feel the heavy attention of something much older, much less familiar. Wing's energy field reached out, but Drift pulled away, snapping his field close to his plating.

"Drift," Wing said again, slowly getting up. The light caught the blue gem of the Sword still in his hand and Drift jerked back as though shot. "What is it?"

All of his instincts screamed _THREAT_. Drift felt that great emptiness yawning before him, a voice beyond his comprehension calling him to leap in.

"Can't," he gritted out. And he did what Deadlock never would have done. He retreated. He ran.

* * *

_Storm's End _carried its passengers faithfully and well through one small corner of space, one planet at a time, returning refugees to their homes in dropships. And Drift kept running. _Storm's End_ was several times larger than _Wayward Light_, easy enough to find some space, get some distance. It wasn't Wing he was avoiding. It was the Sword.

_What can it do to you?_ he berated himself. _It's a sword. It's a piece of metal and a pretty bit of shine. It can't hurt you._

And he was still afraid.

If Halet'h or any of the others thought his behavior strange, they never mentioned it. It was Wing who looked at him in concern, when they were in the same room, his energy field flickering tentatively outward, supplicating, confused and apologetic.

But it was the Sword that judged him, and Drift knew if he let it, it would find him wanting. What good could it find in an ex-Decepticon? A soldier, more deaths on his conscience than he'd be able to count? A gutter rat? No matter how they'd reformatted him in New Crystal City, there were stains he could never wipe clean. He wasn't like Wing. He wasn't beautiful or compassionate or serene. He was good at killing, that was all. Well, killing, and running away. He'd run from the gutters, he'd run from Turmoil, from the war, and now he was running from Wing.

He was nursing the last of his energon ration when his comm pinged. Wing.

_/We need you on the bridge./_ His signal gave nothing away.

_/Understood,/_ Drift answered. _/I'll be there./_

He took the trip in altmode at reckless speed and unfolded into root mode at the bridge. Halet'h, Wing, and one of the refugees—furred, female, about to Drift's chest—were clustered by the viewport, looking out at the dusty gray planet.

_Pyrrhus_, an alert pinged to Drift's HUD, leftover data tagged with Decepticon coding. A planet he knew? Should know?

Then he saw the other ships at high orbit over the planet. Cybertronian cruisers, impossible to identify as Autobot or Decepticon at this distance, but the impact was the same: they may have run away from the war, but the war still pursued them.


	4. A Lot More Than Words And Guns

**A/N: **Now, see, this is what happens when cross-posting stories... Just so everyone knows, this story is primarily updated on Ao3, so you'll get updates sooner there should I happen to forget to update it here. Like the latest _four chapters_.

* * *

**4. A Lot More Than Words And Guns**

* * *

"Pyrrhus," the female refugee said. Ayyka. "My homeworld. But it…" She laid a furred hand against the viewport, staring at her planet. "It never looked like this before."

"And never had Cybertronian cruisers above it," Wing said. He looked at Drift, then quickly away, as though the weight of his optics might scare Drift off. "We were hoping you might identify whether they are Autobot or Decepticon."

"Not at this distance," Drift said. "Have they sent any signals?"

"We are receiving now," Halet'h said. "They are hailing us for a visual feed."

Drift drew closer and examined the registry. "It isn't a Decepticon code," he said. "Probably Autobot, then."

"Should we answer?" Halet'h asked.

"You'd better. They're liable to get itchy trigger fingers if you don't." Drift took Wing's arm and pulled him aside, out of visual range of the comm unit. "We're not here."

"We understand, Drift-friend."

"But we're neutral," Wing protested quietly. "We have nothing to hide and nothing to fear."

"Not everyone plays by your rules," Drift said. "Trust me, Wing. All being neutral means is that _both_ sides have a reason to hate you."

Those were the most words they'd exchanged in… far too long.

Wing had some idea what was bothering Drift, but for the moment his attention was thoroughly diverted. Yes, he remembered the start of the war, when the Circle and the other refugees had fled Cybertron, seeking refuge among the stars. The war had followed them for so long, both sides—Autobots and Decepticons alike—full of sneering disdain for the ones who fled. Of course it would be no different now.

The comm screen blinked to life and a Cybertronian face appeared. Green armor, blue visor, Autobot insignia on his shoulder.

"Unknown ship, you have entered Autobot space. Identify yourself and state your intentions." His subvocs were suspicious, but not immediately hostile. Without his energy field, Wing couldn't be sure.

Halet'h stepped forward into full view, giving his formal bow. "This is _Storm's End_. We have no quarrel with the Cybertronians and no part in your conflict. We carry refugees, freed slaves. One of our number is a native of this planet."

He beckoned Ayyka forward.

"This is not Autobot space," she said. "It is Pyrrhic."

Drift's plating shifted anxiously. Wing reached out to touch his arm, but hesitated at the last moment. Drift had been so… determined about avoiding him. He would not welcome a touch now, even for comfort.

Despite Drift's concern, the Autobot on the screen did not look angered by Ayyka's words. If anything, he looked uncomfortable.

"One moment," he said. The comm screen winked out.

"Are they likely to attack?" Halet'h asked.

"Autobots? Not without some warning shots," Drift said. "He's got to check things with his commander." His dark subvocs suggested he was thinking about his own former commander, Turmoil. Drift hadn't told Wing much about him, but it was enough.

"What's happened to my planet?" Ayyka whispered, staring at the dusty globe. "It should be… it should be _green_."

"The war happened," Drift muttered.

With a pop of static, the Autobot appeared on the comm screen again.

"Since you _are_ Pyrrhic," he said, "we will permit you to land."

"Thank you," Halet'h said. "We will send a drop shuttle to the surface."

"I'll go," Wing said when the comm screen flicked off. Drift bristled.

"Not a good idea."

"I want to see for myself what this war has left behind," Wing said. Perhaps he spoke a bit more sharply than usual, or perhaps his words bit into some mass of guilt Drift carried, as part of this war, because Drift's mouth flattened into a thin line.

_It's no longer his war_, Wing told himself, but until recently Drift had always insisted he needed to return to the fight. And now, with Drift suddenly so spooked, what if he decided to go through with it? What if he went somewhere Wing couldn't follow?

What could Wing do then—return to New Crystal City, alone, defeated? Go crawling back, tie himself in knots with Dai Atlas's laws? No. He would not be passive. He would not be _docile._

He'd almost cleared the bridge, Ayyka at his heels, when he heard Drift curse.

"Wait. I'm coming."

* * *

Drift wouldn't look at him in the shuttle. He sat examining one of the blades he'd taken from Crystal City, thumbing the edge. Wing doubted he would use it—their landing coordinates were clear of life-forms, with the nearest settlement some distance away—so he knew it was a distraction. Another avoidance. He sighed, looking away. Ayyka sat with her arms tucked around herself.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"It looks so different," she said. "Nothing like the home I remember."

"Have you been gone a long time?"

"Years. I wonder if I will recognize anything. I wonder if they will recognize me."

"I haven't seen my homeworld in…" Primus. How long now? "…a very long time," he admitted. "I know how you feel."

"Touching down," the pilot, another of the refugees, called from the front of the shuttle. Drift slid his sword back into its sheath, taking up a position near the ramp. He rode the shuttle's slightly rocky landing like any veteran soldier. Graceful when he needed to be—when he wasn't thinking about it. Wing's gaze sank lower, appreciating the unconscious roll of Drift's hips. It really had been a while. He'd gotten so used to little casual touches with Drift, and he missed it. As soon as they solved this, Wing would never take it for granted again.

The ramp opened to let in hazy gray light. Drift took a few cautious steps down, then jerked his head in an all-clear. Ayyka was past him in a flash. Wing brushed his hand against Drift's as he passed, but Drift twitched away.

When Wing stepped from the ramp, he forgot all about Drift's rebuff. The shuttle had landed in a flat gray plain. The horizon was indistinct, the air still thick with smoke that burned in his vents.

Ayyka stood stock-still, staring at the nothingness, her ears flattened to her head.

"How did this happen?" she whispered. "This… this all used to be a forest."

Wing knelt, scooping up a handful of the fine ash and letting it run through his fingers. In the end he held only fragments of charred bone. So much life, reduced to this. Dust, ash, and bone.

Autobot, Decepticon, both were at fault here. He looked up into the hazy sky as though he could still see the cruisers overhead, battling each other and bombarding troops on the ground, annihilating the native life-forms. It was easy to picture. He had seen the start of the war on Cybertron, before the Circle had evacuated. Now, after all this time, it was like a memory from a dream, or a nightmare.

"How can one species cause so much damage?" Ayyka said. He pulled his gaze from the sky to find her watching him, bitterly, seeing in him the ones who had done this. And, in a way, they were all responsible. All Cybertronians, by action or inaction, had contributed to this handful of bone.

Wing let the shame bite and burn. The Circle of Light were supposed to be the best their kind had to offer: their scientists, their philosophers, their _peacemakers_, and what did they do but hide? Perhaps now that New Crystal City sat on the surface of Theophany, rather than buried beneath it, their message of peace might spread, but it was far too little and far too late.

Too late for this planet. Too late for their own.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know it changes nothing, but… I am. Sorry. Truly."

"It changes nothing," Ayyka said. She nodded stiffly. "But thank you for bringing me…" Her voice caught. "…home. May your own homecoming be more welcome."

She trudged away from the drop shuttle, looking tiny and fragile among the devastation as her feet lifted clouds of ash.

_Cybertron_. Was this, Wing wondered, what awaited him if he ever returned there? Was _this_ what had become of them?

Drift's EM field prickled cautiously against his, tight and cold with his own reaction to the ruin around them. For an instant, Wing wondered how many battlefields like this Drift had stood on. Or rather, Deadlock. How many dead he had left behind. How many fragile worlds had been crushed in his wake. But the thought crumpled. He could not hold himself above Deadlock the soldier, not with the Sword's weight between his shoulders. A symbol, an artifact, but still a weapon, forged for combat.

He and Drift had had this conversation before, early on in New Crystal City, when Drift still glared at everything, kept his hands near the nonexistent holsters for his lost guns, never smiled. He had been a prisoner. A necessity, however unpleasant.

They had been sparring, until Wing called a halt. Drift had been exhausted, but he had too much pride to ask for a respite. Drift was nursing a dent on his chest, his fans gradually quieting from the high of sparring. Wing still felt the energy humming through his lines, but he was chasing his calm. Sparring with Drift was—exhilarating. Of course the Decepticon was untrained in their way of fighting, Wing's way, but he didn't lack for strength or determination or focus. He was trained to be fast, brutal, to clear a path or hold a breach, and that killing power was focused on Wing every day. Yes, he knew that Drift was _aiming _to maim or even kill him if he could. It lent the fight that sharp edge of urgency, a thrill Wing hadn't tasted in so long. Perhaps, _perhaps _Dai Atlas was right in his caution, if Drift was already affecting him this way.

"So tell me something," Drift said, sardonic rather than curious. "If you're supposed to be all about peace and love and harmony, why are you a fighter? Your precious Circle is so scared of war, but you carry around massive swords."

"The Great Swords are artifacts," Wing said, looking over at the wall of their sparring chamber, where Peerless waited patiently. "We do not use them in combat." _Unless we must_.

"Still a symbol," Drift said. "I don't look at a mech who carries a giant sword and think 'pacifist.' I don't call a mech who fights like you a 'pacifist.'"

"Every one of the Circle has a choice of function," Wing said. Drift's optics flashed at that, and for a moment there was a quiet shared memory between them: prewar Cybertron, under the Functionists, when a mech's altmode mattered more than his own choice. "Some are engineers, scientists, or medics. They guide and serve those who need them. Some are teachers, philosophers, or scholars. They keep the memory of Cybertron's culture alive and pass it on to others." He shrugged, his flightpanels ruffling. "I am a warrior. I defend those who cannot protect themselves against any who would do them harm. Between us we represent the three functions of the Circle: to serve, to teach, and to protect."

"Still boils down to you having fighters in your oh-so-perfect utopia."

Wing gave him a wry smile. "We respect life, Drift, but that doesn't make us blind or stupid. There will always be people who thrive on the suffering of others. We use our skills to defend ourselves and those in our care. I fight when I must, to protect what we've built here."

"Fighting for peace," Drift said.

"A necessary paradox," Wing admitted.

Now, kneeling in the ash of what was once a forest planet, Wing felt doubt creeping in.

"Is this what we are?" he whispered, letting shards of bone slip through his fingers one by one. "Fighting for peace. Destroying everything around us." Drift didn't answer, but his EM field prickled again, a tentative brush against Wing's. His own form of comfort.

"I can't… this can't be what we were made for," Wing said, louder. Endless war. Struggling, fighting, killing. When Vector Sigma had forged him, when he had been carefully harvested from Cybertron's surface, this cannot have been the future he was meant for.

Were the Circle just fooling themselves? Was it possible to be a pacifist when your entire species seemed built for destruction?

The weight of uncertainty pressed him down, curving his spine. "We're better than this."

"Maybe we're not," Drift said. "Maybe this _is_ what we are."

"No." The conviction in Wing's voice startled even himself as he stood, wings flaring out in defiance. _No_. After everything he'd told Drift, everything he'd tried to teach him, how could he abandon his faith now? "I don't believe that. We aren't just machines. We aren't just weapons. All of us possess the capacity for good. All of us can change."

Drift, to his surprise, had the smallest quirk of a smile on his face. "That's more like it," he said, with a gently teasing imitation of Wing's harmonics, _again_. "I was going to ask 'who are you and what did you do with Wing,' but this worked even better."

Wing managed a smile. Drift. Drift, at least, was better than this. He could have faith in Drift.

He looked across the ash plain to Ayyka's tiny shape trudging towards the distant settlement. She still looked small, but no longer so fragile. She had survived. Her people survived. At long as they survived, they could rebuild. The forest would regrow in time. And no war, not even theirs, was forever. Autobots, Decepticons, they could still change their natures.

He turned towards the ship, but paused for a moment beside Drift, who didn't pull away this time when Wing rested his hand lightly on his chest and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you, Drift."


	5. The Abyss Gazes Also

**5. The Abyss Gazes Also**

* * *

He'd never seen Wing like that before. Wing was the one who pushed him, who harped on the good in everyone and honoring and respecting all life, and it had been intensely wrong seeing him hesitant, uncertain, doubting. Drift had him pretty well figured out, though: if he couldn't say something to himself, make him say it to Drift, and convince himself in the process.

Even with Wing cheerful again, Drift still didn't relax until Pyrrhus and the Autobot cruisers were far behind. _Wayward Light_ was quiet and safe and… and frag it, what he _really_ wanted was to get Wing in his hands again. One little kiss on the cheek wasn't nearly enough. Drift hadn't realized just how much he'd come to anticipate Wing's casual touches throughout the day—a brush of their hands, a nudge of elbows, a chaste kiss in passing. And of course the interfacing. That was nice too.

He knew it was childish to hide from a fragging sword. Especially if it meant avoiding Wing. He was a soldier! He'd faced down worse than this.

No more hiding. He left his generously-named hab suite, took a left, and almost ran straight into Wing, who had apparently had the same idea. He steadied them automatically, one hand on each of Wing's arms. The buzz of his EM field was… intoxicating.

"Wing. I was… just…" He trailed off, because the long black hilt of the Great Sword was missing from over Wing's head. He craned his neck, trying to be subtle. Nope. Wasn't there.

"I know it's bothering you," Wing said softly, "and we need to talk about—"

He cut off with a squeak when Drift lunged at him, crushing their mouths together. Wing's back clunked against the wall. His hands came up to trace the lower rim of Drift's helm.

"We… we really _do_ need… to talk about… it, Drift," he managed between kisses, but his hips rocked just as insistently against Drift's as Drift's did against his. It _had_ been kind of a long time.

"Later," Drift growled, as Wing caught his lower lip between his fangs and tugged. He slid his hands down Wing's sides and under the skirting panels, hiking him up against the wall and sliding a leg between his thighs. Wing balanced on his toeplates, burying a moan in Drift's mouth, then relaxed enough to rest more weight on Drift's thigh, grinding his heated panel against the smooth metal. His pinned wings gave a helpless little wiggle.

"Can't tell you all the stuff I want to do to those wings of yours," Drift muttered. Wing hummed, arching his back.

"Why not?" he asked mischievously. "I'm listening."

"Because you like the sound of my voice…" Drift purred straight into his audio, and Wing swallowed a whine, his interface panel clicking open. Worked every time. Drift ducked his head to chew on Wing's throat cabling, peeking down the triangular planes of Wing's body to get a glimpse of his pressurized spike, white and red and pretty as the rest of him. "…and this is gonna be too fast already."

He hitched one of Wing's legs higher to get better access, opening his own panel at the same time. Wing had other ideas, but just as good, Drift decided dazedly as the jet wrapped a hand around both of their spikes at once. Heated lubricant was just enough to lessen the burn while keeping the friction at the perfect level as Drift growled and thrust against him, wrapping his hand around Wing's. Wing's other hand stroked gently up the back of his neck, then grabbed onto one of his helm finials, pulling his head back hard. Drift's engine revved, all but drowning out his shout. Wing's head leaned against the wall, but he was still watching Drift, his smile showing a hint of sharp little fangs. His optics glinted with mischief.

"That's good, Drift," he said, giving a long, slow rock that felt like it lit up every sensor on Drift's front. What Drift meant as a growl came out more like a whine as that unyielding grip on his finial angled his head back a little further. Drift strained forward, trying to catch that teasing smile, but Wing's grip was strong. His hips pressed forward instead, rubbing their spikes together insistently. "Good," Wing said again, his voice pitched lower than usual, tight and pleased. He leaned forward just a little, easing Drift's head forward until their lips almost touched. "You like when I take control?"

Drift's engine purred in response as he tried, again, to catch Wing's mouth, but Wing tweaked his finial, keeping them microns apart.

"Let's make… a deal," Wing whispered, his optics flickering in pleasure as he rocked his hips. Lubricant seeping from around his valve cover smeared Drift's thigh. "You… give me this, and… I will let you do… what_ev_er you want… to my wings."

"Deal," Drift said, raw and needy. The best kind: one where they both got what they wanted on both sides. He felt his overload approaching in a storm of charge, and he could see it in Wing: the tension in every cable, the way his plating shivered, the erratic squeezing of his hand around their spikes. Wing's optics on him, hungrily drinking in every minute shift in his expression, finally tipped him over the edge. Unable to muffle himself in Wing's mouth or neck as he usually did, he roared out his overload, tossing his head against Wing's tight grip. He almost missed the spectacle of Wing writhing against the wall, shamelessly grinding his valve down onto Drift's thigh, unusually quiet except for one chiming cry.

Wing's hand finally slipped off of Drift's helm, letting him slump forward, mouthing at Wing's jaw and the bottom of his audial flares. Wing hummed as Drift let him rest his weight on the ground again. He lifted his hand, examining the silver slickness of transfluid that dripped from it.

"Kind of a mess," Drift muttered, half apologetic, but his vocalizer glitched when Wing brought the hand to his mouth and dragged his glossa up from the palm to the tip of his first finger. The jet made a wicked little noise, like savoring some strange Crystal City treat, but never took his optics off Drift's as he slid his first two fingers into his mouth. Drift tried not to show just what that was doing to his interface equipment. He knew Wing had a talented mouth but he'd never actually had it anyplace _really_ sensitive.

"That doesn't seem like the kind of thing a good little knight should do," Drift said. Wing slid his fingers out with a wet sucking pop.

"The Circle's tenets," he said, his voice delightfully low as it always was after overload, "have surprisingly little to say on interfacing."

Drift caught his wrist before he could start in again and took the next finger into his own mouth, not to be outdone. Wing's smile widened as Drift made sure to do a thorough cleaning job indeed.

"And is this something a good Decepticon soldier should do?"

"Only the best ones," Drift said, and licked the rest clean.

* * *

"Tell me," Wing said quietly.

They sat on the edge of the berth in Wing's hab suite, and the Great Sword was spread across Wing's lap, pommel towards Drift. Drift thought he was doing an admirable job of not scooting away. He glared at it in suspicion, and the feeling, he thought, was mutual.

He pulled his gaze away from the Sword and into a corner of the room. He was no storyteller.

_So make a report, Deadlock._

Never too good at reports either.

"We were all fighting," he said bluntly. "Me and Lockdown. You and Braid. Everyone and everyone else. There was a blast. I looked up and you were… I saw him…" He vented a harsh gust of air. _Make a report._ He pushed all the emotion from his voice. "You were going for the Sword when he stabbed you. Saw you go down. Thought you were dead. I fought him hand-to-hand, and with swords. He overpowered me. That's when the reinforcements hit."

"From the City?" Wing asked softly, trying not to interrupt.

"Right. He was distracted, watching them come. You were right there next to me. The Sword was lying there, from when you'd dislodged it. So I went for it. And when I touched it I…"

His vocalizer caught. _Make your report_, he commanded himself viciously.

"It hurt," he said. "Like I'd grabbed a live wire. And in here, it hurt." He jabbed at his chest. "Felt something looking at me. Something big. And not just at me. In me, or through me. It saw… everything. Everything I am, everything I was. Like it _knew_. But I couldn't stop looking at you, remembering what he did to you. I was angry, and…" He made a vague motion towards the Sword. "It was angry. And I just… moved. I didn't think. I didn't plan it. I just moved."

"Did it hurt then?"

"No. Didn't hurt. Felt like it didn't weigh anything. It was like I wasn't even injured. One swing, and that was it."

"That was it."

"I wasn't doing too great and the battle was mostly over, Dai Atlas and the others had cleaned up pretty well. We took you back to the city and…" He shrugged. Wing knew the rest, more or less.

Wing nodded. He vented slowly, considering his words. "Drift… what about the Sword makes you nervous?"

"It controlled me," Drift said instantly. "It knows stuff about me, things I never told anyone. It looked inside me. I don't… I don't like that."

"I understand," Wing said. "The Great Swords can be unnerving, especially to the unprepared."

"You told me some scrap about them using Spark energy when you fight."

Wing's mouth twitched upward. "Does it sound like scrap now?"

Drift shuddered, resisting the urge to clutch at his chest. "No. I was wiped out after."

Wing nodded again. He rubbed his fingers up and down the flat of the blade, over the ancient symbols engraved near the hilt.

"Are you afraid of me, Drift?"

"Never." Awed, perhaps, respectful, when he saw Wing fighting the slavers in a whirlwind of light and death, but never afraid.

"Then you should not," Wing said, "fear this. It _is_ me, Drift. We are connected. We're… more than connected. There are mysteries the circle's laws forbid me to reveal to you, but I can say that the Great Swords choose their bearers. The sword chose me, Drift. It chose me, and then it chose you."

Drift recoiled. "But I'm not one of you. I'm not… I'm not _like_ you. I never asked for this!"

"Exactly, Drift. The Great Sword cannot, _would_ not bond in that way to an unwilling Spark. But when you picked it up in battle… Drift… when you touched it, how exactly did it feel?"

Drift remembered. Oh, he remembered. "Like… like standing too close to the darkmatter drives. Like trying to grab an ion ray. Hot. _Burning_. And then…" He stumbled. "and then… not. Like it didn't weigh anything. Like I wasn't even holding anything."

He got the sense that Wing was choosing his words carefully. "Great Swords are selective, Drift. If it hadn't chosen you, if it hadn't wanted you to hold it, you would have known. Immediately." _And painfully_, Drift thought he would have said, if he weren't trying to gentle Drift through this. Or even _fatally_. He got that feeling. "When you took up the Sword in battle, you acted as one. You did not wield the sword, nor did it control you. You acted _together_. As you and I would. Did. As partners."

"Some partner," Drift muttered.

Wing's shoulder fins twitched as he eyed Drift sidelong. "Drift," he said cautiously, "if you're willing, I might be able to, well, introduce you, so to speak. With me as an intermediary, you might find it less… intense."

"And if I'm not willing? I don't want to be 'friends' with it. I just want it to lay off me."

Wing sighed. Oh, Drift knew that body language. _Drift is being sooo unreasonable again._

"This is part of me, Drift," he said. "This is who I am. And if we're going to be…" He hesitated. Drift hung on that pause, even though he wasn't sure what word he'd put in it either. "…if this is going to work, this is a part of me you'll have to accept, sooner rather than later."

Drift glared at the Sword. It glared back.

"What do I have to do."

"We're going to meditate," Wing explained. "Just like we did before. Try to relax, whatever it is you did. Only this time, you'll come with me."

Wing must have sensed his hesitation. He leaned forward and brushed a kiss against Drift's mouthplates.

"I swear," he promised, staring straight into Drift's optics, "I won't let anything happen to you."

"All right, I'll do it," Drift muttered, ducking his head away from that earnest gaze. Wing beamed brighter than a sun. He took Drift's hand and shifted it onto the Sword, right over the blue gem. Drift wanted to pull away, but Wing's hand was warm and comforting, and hadn't he promised himself he'd stop running?

"Relax, Drift," Wing said. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not…" _Blatant lies alert._ He grumbled, and instead, looked down at their hands, Wing's fingers gently interlaced with his, black on black. There were so many delicate cables and fine joints that he could get lost in the maze of their fingers. Focus only on that. Concentrate on that. And the blue glow of the gem peeking through their fingers. The feeling of being watched. The warmth of Wing next to him, radiating calmness and focus, and slowly Wing pulled him in.

It was as though he stood at the edge of an abyss. Below him was something older than either of them, something gazing back at him, waiting. _A leap of faith,_ he thought, and would have scoffed had he not been so overawed.

Wing had been here once, he thought. Wing must have felt the same doubt, hesitating on the brink of a fall from which his wings couldn't save him. But he had done it then, and he had done it since, and if Wing could do this—

_I'm right here, Drift_, Wing seemed to whisper, and Drift felt a squeeze on his hand, a head resting on his shoulder, the comforting weight of another body tucking against his side. And together they leapt, and what Drift had taken for darkness was light, open and overpowering, like the sky he had sometimes glimpsed from the Dead End, or the giddy oblivion that had edged into his processors when he was boosting. Old and vast and alien, but not wholly unfamiliar—even this strange great presence was tinged with Wing. His optimism, his mischief.

And Wing was _here_. All of him, not the echo in the Sword—they were both connected to the Sword, and Drift could reach him through that connection. A smile and the shine off his plating and the sunlight glow of his optics. Strength and laughter. And the Sword, a part of him as much as he was part of it, giving him patience. A two-way bond.

The presence gave a gentle nudge—like a polite cough, reminding Drift why he was here. Again the heavy weight of the Sword's full attention shifted to him, straight to his core. Sorting through experiences and memories and the moods and emotions that made _him._ Gutter rat, soldier, killer, whatever he was now. His hunger, his anger, his violence, and past that, _through_ that, into some place he'd never looked inside himself. And like some giant rolling over in its sleep, it subsided, content. Accepting if not welcoming.

And he needn't have worried about getting back, because he was simply sitting on the berth with Wing as though nothing had happened, staring into his gold optics, and Wing's hand lifted suddenly from his on the Sword to touch his cheek.

"Drift?" he said, and then he was stumbling over words in a way Drift had never heard from him. "Are you all right? I'm sorry… I know it can be difficult… the first time is… we train for _years_ before we're allowed to… are you all right?"

_Worried about me_, Drift realized. Endearing. Wing kissed him on the lips, then the nasal ridge, then the lips again, sweeping his thumb up Drift's finial.

"I'm fine," he said, even though he didn't want Wing to stop kissing him. "Fine. Really." And a name sprang from his vocalizer. "Peerless," he said, testing the full spectrum—the name carried a longer history than Drift could imagine in its subvocs. And something _familiar_.

Wing's expression changed, shock and pleasure at once. "Drift," he said. "It _told_ you."

"But that's _your_ name," Drift said. He'd heard those subvocs before, when Dai Atlas addressed Wing before the entire Circle. Wing's full-spectrum name included the identity of his Great Sword.

"It's our tradition," Wing said. "The Great Sword is so much more than a weapon. As I said, as you've seen now, it becomes a part of us."

"I never told you," Drift said, awkward—he hadn't offered this to anyone, truly, in so long—"my name. It's pronounced…"

He gave his full-spectrum name slowly, rather than the pure phonetics he'd given when they'd first met. It had been a long time, and his name had changed as much as he had with Deadlock tucked into its harmonics and his current uncertainty in his subvocs.

Wing repeated his name back to him, carefully. He smiled. "Thank you for telling me, Drift." And this time he had replaced the uncertainty with subvocs of belonging and affection. It had been a long time since anyone had said his name like that. Wing kissed him again, his hand sliding over Drift's shoulder. "You're so brave."

"Not as brave as you," Drift muttered.

Wing made a sound that should have been a laugh, but his EM field shivered and pulled close to his plating. Not like Wing to avoid anything.

"Something you want to talk about?" Hey, Wing made him deal with the fragging Sword, Drift could make him deal with whatever was bothering him.

Wing set the Great Sword aside and swung a leg over Drift in one fluid movement, straddling his lap. "I think we've talked quite enough," he said, with a teasing nibble at one of Drift's finials. "Don't you?"

_Sneaky little thing_, Drift thought in admiration, gladly letting Wing push him flat on the berth.


	6. Save The Last Dance

**6. Save The Last Dance  
**

* * *

Approximately eighty percent of Merseia's surface was covered in water. Its people lived primarily in floating cities, with the largest settlements on the scarce land. _Storm's End_ would be a boon to this place. It sat on the cliffs overlooking the beach, surrounded by excited natives.

Drift tried not to think about how much sand was getting into their pedes as he and Wing stood on the beach near the tideline. Halet'h's gills had taken on a healthy color, waving in the sea air.

"You have our deepest thanks, Wing-friend, Drift-friend," he said with a formal bow. "You will be remembered as family, blood-of-our-blood. We never thought we would breathe our home's air. We are proud to finally show you our planet."

"It's beautiful," Wing said. "So full of light."

_And life_, Drift added silently. The ocean didn't look like much, but the readings had been off the scale.

"It is our deepest hope that you will return one day to your planet," Halet'h said. "Your world of light and steel."

Not the Cybertron Drift remembered. Nothing like this open space.

"Wing-friend," Halet'h said abruptly. "You have done more for us than we ever would have hoped. Please, let us ask you for one thing more."

"Name it."

"We would see you fly, as you would in your home. It would bring us joy to see you as you were meant to be."

Wing beamed and flared his flightpanels. "It will bring _me_ joy, Halet'h-friend," he said, the alien tongue rolling effortlessly from his vocalizer. He turned that smile on Drift and his energy field nudged outward, unusually shy, brushing against Drift's awareness. Some sort of invitation, but Drift had no idea what it meant, or how he was supposed to reply.

Then Wing's engines fired and he lifted off in a swirl of sand, folding into altmode as he spiraled upward. Drift had seen his altmode before, but briefly, streaking across the underground city from Wing's home to the Circle's citadel. He had never, he realized suddenly, seen Wing _really_ fly, under the open sky.

And it—and he was beautiful. The sun gleamed off the planes of his streamlined armor as he darted through the air, dodging invisible obstacles. Flashes of white, red, and silver, teasing. Even in altmode there was no mistaking Wing. He brought the same grace to flight as he did to sparring, to everything he did.

"It is small wonder that he returned from the deepest dark," Halet'h said with a palpable tone of awe. "Even the lady of the darkest seas could not bear to take such beauty from the world."

A touch poetic, perhaps, but even Drift felt he could understand poetry now, seeing Wing turn barrel-rolls and playful loops, describing shapeless forms in the air, glyphs without sound and yet with infinite meaning.

"You are fortunate, Drift-friend."

Even Halet'h's words could not distract him from Wing's dance—there was no other word for it. It took him several slow moments to process them.

"Fortunate?"

"Such a one is a gift," Halet'h said. "Do not squander it."

It occurred to Drift that he should be worried—after all, Wing had not flown properly for months, and now it seemed he was pulling every stunt in his arsenal—but he felt nothing except possessive pride. Wing flew with such absolute confidence that there was no question of his abilities.

"Thank you, a thousand times," Halet'h said. He waded into the hissing sea. Drift made an abortive gesture to wait, glancing up towards Wing. Halet'h smiled. "This is how we will remember him," he said. "And we do not believe for an instant that this dance is for us, Turns-From-Darkness."

With that he slid gracefully into a wave. He submerged briefly, then leapt from the water in a graceful spin—above him, Wing rolled in a dizzying corkscrew, waggling his wings in salute—and vanished into the depths.

Wing spiraled above him, showing no sign of tiring. Drift wished suddenly, desperately, that he could fly, work his way into the openings in Wing's dance, learn this like a sparring form. Earn Wing's smiles and approval, add to the beauty of the display.

And now that he was looking, he knew exactly what this was, what Halet'h had meant. This was not only a flight to stretch sky-hungry wings. This was a courtship display.

The realization sent a warm fizz into Drift's Spark, pleasure warring with hesitation, confusion. Wing was… too beautiful, kinder, more mischievous and delightful than Drift deserved. Drift was a gutter rat, a soldier, an exile. And still Wing had chosen to come with him.

Drift transformed, now heedless of the sand, and took off across the beach and up the narrow track to the clifftops. Wing's armor flashed in the alien sun as he painted one last nonsense glyph in the sky, then came in for a landing, transforming to root mode on his descent. Drift put out his arms unthinkingly. Wing slowed only slightly, but Drift caught him and turned with his momentum, as though they were sparring, and they spun together, Wing's laughter lighting his energy field. When they stopped, Wing's vents were running high, his optics feverish, his fingers interlaced at the back of Drift's neck.

"Thank you," Drift said. "That was…" He hesitated, embarrassed, but his energy field did the talking for him. Wing trilled wordlessly, pulling him into a kiss, deep thorough, wanting. His insistent fingers skimmed under the lip of Drift's helm, his hot engines thrumming their vibrations deep under Drift's armor.

Drift pushed a leg between Wing's thighs and Wing moaned, nibbling on Drift's lip. He ground his heated interface panel against the metal of Drift's thigh. His vents blended with the rise and fall of the waves below them as Drift's fingers slid under his armor, savoring the stark contrast between wind-chilled plating and hot circuitry. Wing rocked more insistently, tucking his face into Drift's neck, nipping and lapping at his cables. His fans kicked up still higher as he trembled. Drift dragged him still closer to his peak, hands moving back to the still-extended wings. Wing cried out, pressing back into the touch. The delicate flightpanels shivered, and excess charge stung Drift's fingers as he explored the joints of those elegant wings.

It was all Wing could take. He buried his broken cry of release in Drift's mouth, driving his panel down on Drift's hard thigh. Drift swallowed the noise, drawing Wing's overload out into one long, shuddering, blissful eternity as the waves crashed.

Wing nuzzled beneath his jaw, slowly folding in his wings. "It's beautiful here," he murmured, a non sequitor, his field rippling in contentment. Drift still felt as though he should say more, do more, to make sure Wing knew that he understood the value of what he had been given. He settled for another kiss.

"Alone at last," he quipped, raising his head to look at _Wayward Light_, waiting a short walk down the clifftop. "Where to next?"

Wing rested against him, staring across the ocean to the horizon. "Up to you," he said finally, an offering. "Where you go, I go."


End file.
